When the Fireflies Came
by Scheherazade's Daughter
Summary: Fireflies: A seemingly mundane investigation into some missing archeologists turns into a search for the cause of a mysterious illness. And who or what are the "fireflies"? Aftermath: Ward discovers that there are different kinds of strong. Somewhat Skyward; lots of angst, whump, and h/c with a healthy dose of mystery.
1. Fireflies

**Author's note**: This was my attempt to write some whump for Kitty O (I know you told me I didn't have to write anything, but I agree with you that there isn't nearly enough AOS whump out there). It got a little longer than I intended. All facts about Sonora, Cerro de Trincheras, and anything non-sci-fi mentioned here are accurate. I checked. Also, it's pronounced ver-_sed, _not versed. Spiral fractures of the radius are typically caused by having one's arm twisted too hard and are usually a sign of abuse. And yes, I've used Ward's hatred of hot weather to vent my frustrations about Texan summers (it's going to start hitting triple digits soon). Dr. Blake from the Sandbox is not Agent Blake, but rather a nod to Criminal Minds. Much as I miss Emily, I'm kind of starting to warm up to Alex Blake. Yes, I know, the plot is probably more SG-1-esque, but work with me here. Somewhat Skyward, but nothing mushy. Kitty O, keep an eye out for attempt number two. Under five thousand words this time, I promise. _Update: attempt number two has been written. It's called _Night of the New Moon, _and features May and Ward and memories of an old mission that didn't go so well._

…this author's note got a little longer than I intended. I'm sensing a theme here.

* * *

The late afternoon sun beat down over the rolling mountains of Sonora, Mexico, illuminating a vast expanse of dry, desert scrubland. Hard, waxy grasses and shrubs grew in clumps that dotted the mountainside, interrupted by the occasional gnarled tree. Lizards waited under rocks, taking shelter from the heat, or perhaps from something else. The terrain rose and fell, forming hills and cliffs and passes and buttes. A lone road ran through the landscape, barely more than a line of trampled foliage, winding its way around cacti and mesquite bushes and eventually leading to a small, flat area of barely-exposed ruins next to a towering mesa. The encroaching desertification that plagued the area had loosened the soil enough that a recent windstorm had unearthed them, just enough that the naked eye could see that there was something there that didn't fit the natural landscape. Something hewn by human hands, then abandoned, long ago.

The path that lead to the ruins was long and winding. Three lone figures walked it, their pace slowed by the afternoon heat. Every step they took stirred up a small puff of dust, and thought they wore shades, their eyes squinted against the harsh sunlight.

"So what exactly are we being called here for?" Jemma Simmons asked as she sidestepped a knot of prickly grass. "Agent Hand wasn't exactly clear, and we don't usually do archaeological work."

"An archeological team went missing from this area," Agent Grant Ward told her, all business. "Local government went to look for them and detected some strange energy readings, so they called us in. Last point of contact was just up ahead."

"Wait, a bunch of people went missing under some seriously weird circumstances and SHEILD's just sending us straight in after them?" Skye asked as she followed her SO down the trail. "What kind of twisted logic is that?"

"We're just running recon," said Ward soothingly. "At the first sign of trouble, we split. Besides, this has the unmistakable odor of busywork from HQ."

"Well, busywork or not, these ruins should be fascinating," Simmons enthused. "I've been reading up on it. Now, Sonora is technically a separate cultural region from Mesoamerica, but there are some definite influences, as well as from the American Southwest. The most notable archaeological site is Cerro de Trincheras, which is actually not too far from here. Do you think we could get Agent Coulson to take us there after we finish sorting this out?" she asked, looking up at Ward hopefully.

Sighing, Ward said, "Possibly. You know what, ask him yourself when we get back." He fervently hoped his boss would say no. Ward hated the heat. He hated the strange bugs that usually came with it. He especially hated the blinding, stinging clouds of dust the wind seemed to kick up at the drop of a hat. The only thing keeping him going right now was the thought of a nice, long, cold shower as soon as they got back.

Ward made a quick sweep of the area around him and, finding no threats, continued shepherding Jemma and Skye towards the last point of contact from the archeological team. Something about the situation was making him squirrely. Before, he'd chalked it up to the terrain; there were far too many places to get ambushed or cornered and not nearly enough cover. Plus, he had a clueless rookie and a hyperactive biochemist-turned-archeologist to babysit, and nothing heavier than a night-night gun for weaponry. It was enough to rattle Romanoff.

But as they reached the dig site, he couldn't ignore the feeling that something was … off. Not wrong, not dangerous, just off. Out of place. Misaligned. Asynchronous. He hated it. He wanted a shower.

"So these are the ruins," Jemma exclaimed, a look of childlike awe coming over her face. She shed her shoulderbag full of lab supplies and turned a full three-sixty, drinking in the scenery. Ward didn't know what she was so excited about. To him, it just looked like a bunch of half-buried stone slabs, some of which would make excellent cover in a firefight, but would not prove otherwise useful. A glance to his left told him that Skye was of much the same opinion.

"I kinda expected something a little more Indiana Jones-y," she admitted, dropping her own backpack next to Jemma's. She turned to the scientist and asked, "So, what do we do now? Deploy the flying tricorders?"

"They're called dwarves, and yes, let's do that," said Jemma, opening the case containing the hardware in question. She began setting up her equipment, motioning for Skye to come help her. The young hacker needed some instruction when it came to the more delicate pieces of tech, but still felt at home with anything electronic. Ward left them to it and stood next to a mesquite bush, eyes scanning the perimeter, hands loose at his sides, idly wondering if a person could sweat himself to death.

"Fitz, are you reading this?" Simmons asked a piece of equipment.

"That I am," Fitz replied, from the other end of the connection. "Nothing significant though … wait, Bashful's picking something up."

Ward leaned forward slightly at the word 'something', then relaxed again when something turned out to be a non-threatening and very unarmed lizard hiding under a rock. Not exactly his territory. They should have sent a herpetologist in his place, he thought grouchily. One who didn't mind the profoundly creepy sensation of sweat trickling down his lower back.

"Um, guys?" Skye said, a note of concern in her voice. She gestured to the tablet she was holding. "Is this normal?" Jemma looked over Skye's shoulder and tapped the display a few times. Ward's hand automatically went to the night-night gun at his belt.

"Goodness, what is that?" Jemma murmured, taking the tablet from Skye and scrolling through it. "I've never seen readings like these before—"

The uneasy feeling that Ward had been nursing all day spiked at the same time as the readings on the screen. A low rumbling reverberated through the air, and the wind seemed to change as the ground began to shake.

"Picking up seismic readings," Jemma was saying, over the increasing noise. "Epicenter seems to be—"

"Let's get out of here," Ward said firmly, grabbing Jemma's arm. He had a feeling he wasn't going to be getting his shower anytime soon.

"Skye, Simmons, back the way we came!" he yelled. The three agents stumbled back down the path, carrying what equipment they could. The rumbling grew louder, and the ground shook more violently until Ward could barely keep his footing. He saw Skye go down in front of him, and as he bent down to help her up, he noticed small cracks forming in the earth. They stumbled after Jemma, the cracks growing bigger with every step they took.

"Keep going!" he urged Jemma and Skye.

A particularly loud bang cut through the air, and Ward lost his footing. A cloud of dust erupted around him. He heard Jemma scream, heard Skye calling out for him. Then the sensation of falling. Then darkness.

"Report," Ward croaked, once the noise had subsided. No answer. "Skye? Simmons?" Still nothing but dusty, dark silence. Ward sat up and squinted into the darkness. A shaft of light fell a few meters from where he stood. He looked up and saw daylight streaming through an irregular hole about nine feet off the ground. They had fallen into some sort of cavern, and they weren't going to be getting out without help. On the bright side, the temperature fell firmly in the category of 'wear a t-shirt' rather than 'spit on the ground and watch it evaporate'.

"Busywork, huh?" came an indignant snort from a few feet away. Ward felt a wave of relief wash over him. "If this is HQ's idea of busywork, I'd hate to see what the rest of your time is spent doing."

"Well, you wanted Indiana Jones," Ward told her. He could dimly make out her silhouette as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. She was brushing dust off her arms. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Couple bumps and bruises. You?"

Ward tested his extremities. "Same. Simmons?"

No answer. He pulled a keychain light out of his pocket and shone it into the darkness. There. A prone figure lay among the dust and rubble a few yards from where he was sitting.

"Simmons?" he called. "Simmons, you okay?" He rose to his feet and picked his way through the rocks to where she lay. Putting his flashlight between his teeth to free his hands, he knelt down to check her for injuries.

"Is she hurt?" Skye asked, half afraid of the answer.

"No, just unconscious," he said, just as relieved as Skye.

"Thank God," the hacker breathed. Then, "Where are we?"

"Some kind of underground cavern," said Ward. "We must've fallen in when that earthquake hit. But we were on the line with Fitz when it happened, so the rest of the team is probably already on its way." He handed her another keychain flashlight. "Let's see if we can dig up any of our gear that might have fallen in with us. Some of that tech is pretty hard to replace."

They succeeded in recovering Skye's backpack, one of Jemma's tablets, her sunhat, a first aid kit, a canteen, thankfully intact, and Ward's night-night gun, which he immediately returned to its rightful place on his belt. Deciding to leave the rest for when backup arrived, they cleared a space next to where Jemma lay and sat down, Skye keeping a careful watch on the biochemist, Ward keeping a careful watch on everything else.

"Hungry?" Skye asked him, unzipping her backpack and holding out a granola bar.

He shook his head. He wasn't hungry. Dirty, yes. Hot, yes. Desperate for a shower, yes. But not hungry.

"Suit yourself." She unwrapped the granola bar and bit into it, chewing happily, only minimally freaked out by their present circumstances. Good, Ward thought. His rookie was learning fast.

Next to him, Jemma coughed weakly and opened her eyes.

"Welcome back," Skye whispered, helping Jemma sit up. "Had us worried for a second there."

"What happened?" the biochemist whispered, rubbing her head. "Where are we?"

"Underground," Ward said. "Some kind of freak earthquake hit and we fell into a cave of some sort. The team's on its way; we can just—" he stopped when he realized she wasn't looking at him, but past him. He looked behind him, and, seeing nothing, turned his gaze back to the biochemist.

"Jemma? You okay?" Skye asked nervously, moving towards her friend. "It's me; it's Skye. You're safe."

Jemma sat preternaturally still for a few seconds, then lashed out, panicked, her hand striking Skye on the cheek. The hacker stumbled back, more stunned than hurt.

"Hey!" she yelled, throwing up an arm to protect her head. Ward was on his feet in seconds, all thoughts of a shower leaving his mind. He grabbed Jemma from behind and crossed his arms over her torso, holding her back. She kept struggling and twisting frantically, but could do no more harm. She felt so small and fragile in his arms, like a bird. Couldn't have weighed much more than a hundred pounds.

"What the flip is going on here?" Skye asked, eyes wide.

"I don't know," said Ward, his arms still full of struggling Jemma. He tightened his grip a little, but left her enough room to breathe. "Shhh," he whispered in her ear. "Just relax; calm down; I got you." After a few minutes, she relaxed slightly, then went still in his arms. Experimentally, he loosened his grip. Jemma didn't move. He let go all the way, and Jemma simply stood there, unmoving, unblinking, staring into space. Her face was chalk-white, and droplets of sweat were forming on her forehead.

"What was that?" Skye asked.

"I have no idea," Ward replied, picking up Jemma's wrist and feeling for a pulse. 156, way too fast. He bet her blood pressure was through the roof as well. "But somehow I think it's connected to that earthquake and the disappearance of those scientists. No type of head injury could cause this kind of reaction."

Skye bit her lip, worry written all over her face. "Is she going to be okay?"

"I have no idea," he repeated. "For now, we wait. Keep the med kit handy; we'll sedate her if we need to."

"Okay." Skye looked fearfully at Jemma, who was still staring intensely at something only she could see.

"Fireflies," she whispered, suddenly frightened. "So many fireflies."

"I don't see any fireflies, Jemma," Skye said slowly. "It's okay. Look, why don't you just sit—"

"Oh, God," she said, rubbing her temples. She was shaking slightly, and breathing much faster than Ward would have liked. "Skye … Ward … what's going on? Where are we? I can't think, oh, God, I can't think—these damn fireflies." She hugged herself, fear plain as day on her face. "What's happening to me?"

Ward took control of the situation. "Let's all just sit down and take a breath," he said, keeping his voice steady. "Simmons, you're going to be fine. You were on the line with Fitz when this all happened; they're probably on their way right now. So like I said, sit down and breathe."

Once they were all comfortably seated, Jemma with her knees drawn up to her chest, rocking slightly, and Skye next to her, Ward laid out the situation.

"The rest of the team is definitely looking for us," he began. He'd said it before, but it never hurt to repeat these things. "They'll be here soon, so we don't have to worry about that. I have my night-night gun, so we're safe, and we still have a canteen if anyone gets thirsty. So we'll be just fine. Simmons, I need you to keep it together. You'll feel better once we get back to the bus. For now, we sit tight and, above all, stay calm." He smiled internally, rather pleased with the way he'd handled that. And to think Agent Hill had drawn what was definitely a porcupine under "people skills" in his file.

"I'm going to keep watch," he continued. "We don't know what else is in this cave, but a bunch of archeologists did go missing, so we're going to be on our guard. Skye, stay with Simmons. Keep her calm. Simmons, don't hurt Skye."

"Yes sir. I'm sorry, sir," Jemma said, biting her lip hard.

"It's cool," Skye assured her. "No harm, no foul. Didn't even leave a mark."

Jemma nodded weakly. The two women stayed seated, Skye speaking soothingly to her friend, while Ward stood guard, hand on his night-night gun. It was quiet except for the occasional whimper from Jemma, and Skye's calming voice. The hacker talked about her exploits in cyberspace, various weird people she'd met at the orphanages where she'd grown up, anything she thought might distract her friend from these so-called "fireflies."

Ward watched them out of the corner of his eye, feeling a slight twinge of envy. Skye was so easygoing, kindhearted, good at comforting people. The easy way she held the biochemist's hand or rubbed her back, the steady sound of her voice; Jemma seemed calmer already. And he wanted that. Wanted it badly. Closeness. Companionship. Someone to soothe him when he woke up from nightmares, choking on a scream. God, it had been so long since someone had so much as touched his shoulder. He was a solitary creature, and he'd accepted long ago that casual hugs and friendly conversation would never be his.

He looked back at Jemma, who was still not exactly in the best of shape.

Which brought up another interesting problem. Though he could defuse a nuke with the best of them, Ward was no scientist, and he had no idea what might be causing a reaction like this. If not for the fireflies, the violence, the staring creepily into space, and the preceding spontaneous earthquake, he'd say it was just garden-variety anxiety. But that was obviously not the case. Maybe it was some kind of weird-ass virus or bacterium. Or an equally weird-ass magnetic field or something that was screwing with Jemma's head. Or poison, maybe, some sort of toxin she'd come into contact with?

"I'm scared, Skye; I'm scared of the fireflies," Jemma whimpered. Ward's eyes darted to where the pair sat on the ground, ready to step in if she got violent again.

"Shh, shh, it's okay," said Skye. "I won't let the fireflies hurt you." She wrapped an arm around Jemma and hugged her, rubbing her shoulder soothingly.

"You can't fight them," Jemma said, her voice growing louder. She was hyperventilating now, shaking and shivering and biting back sobs.

"Come on, come on, stay strong," said Skye. "Hey, what's that dig site you mentioned near here? Cinco de Trinko?"

"Cerro de Trincheras," Jemma corrected, taking a deep breath. "It's quite fascinating, really. It was inhabited between the years 1300 and 1450 by a tribe of indigenous Mexicans. Terraces indicate that they were an agricultural society, but never completely abandoned the hunter-gatherer lifestyle. Two of the most famous buildings are La Cancha and La Caracol. Archaeologists theorize that the former was a sort of community space and the latter—oh, God, Skye, the fireflies!" She broke off and started waving wildly at the air in front of her. "Skye, they're coming for me!"

"Hey, hey, it's okay. There aren't any fireflies," said Skye. "You're okay, shh, you're okay. Why don't you lie down?"

Jemma nodded, tears in her eyes, and lay down on her side, facing Skye, curled up impossibly tight. Skye gently stroked her forehead, still whispering to her. It seemed to help, if only a little. It killed Ward to see Jemma like this. She was always so happy, so innocent and brave, like sunshine in human form, and now she was hurt and scared and seeing things. He'd never seen anything like it before. And fireflies? What was she talking about? Hallucinations? Paranoid delusions? Maybe he was wrong, maybe a head injury had caused this. He had no idea.

It occurred to him that the best person to figure out what was wrong with Jemma was … Jemma. Holstering his night-night gun, he gave the perimeter one last sweep and, detecting no threats, went and crouched down beside the two women.

"How is she?" he asked Skye.

"Same," the hacker reported.

Ward nodded curtly, then turned to Jemma, who was still lying down, hugging herself tightly.

"Jemma, I need to ask you some questions about how you're feeling," he said, as gently has he could. People skills, Grant, people skills, he reminded himself. Don't be a … Hill still maintained it was a porcupine.

"Okay," said Jemma, swallowing hard.

"Can you describe your symptoms?" He was careful to phrase it as a question, not an order. He didn't want to set her off again.

"A-anxiety, agitation, and I just ... And I attacked Skye. She wasn't ..." Her eyes were full of remorse.

"Can you think of anything that can cause something like that? Toxin, radiation?" Again, he phrased it as a question.

Jemma shook her head.

"These fireflies, what are they? Are you seeing something we're not?"

At the word fireflies, Jemma sat up abruptly and began staring into the darkness with that same intense but glassy look in her eyes. Then, as if someone had flipped a switch in her head, she began frantically swatting at the air around her. "It's the fireflies!" she shouted, hysterical.

"Jemma, what fireflies?" Skye asked, standing up and cautiously backing away. Ward also rose to his feet, but his hand was on his night-night gun.

"They're here!" she yelled, springing to her feet. She lunged at Ward, and succeeded in scratching him across the cheek. He holstered his gun, intercepted her hands, spun her around, and pinned her arms across her chest with his own. Again, he was struck by how small and light she was. Jemma struggled and strained, harder than before, and he winced as the heel of her shoe connected with his shin. He didn't think the compression trick would work this time. Ward nodded at Skye, then inclined his head towards the med kit.

"Seds have the blue caps," he told her. The hacker quickly rooted through the kit and came up with a syringe and a couple of alcohol wipes. She looked questioningly at Ward, who nodded.

"Okay, hold her still," Skye told him, a note of alarm in her voice. He squeezed Jemma as tightly as he could without making it hard for her to breathe, and knelt down, forcing her to her knees so she wouldn't kick Skye. The young hacker swabbed Jemma's arm and stuck the needle in, pushing five milligrams of Versed into her shoulder. He waited a few seconds, but she continued to struggle, as strong as ever. That was worrisome. Ward wasn't a doctor, but he knew that a dose that size in someone as light as she was should have kicked in already. He considered ordering Skye to give her another shot, but didn't want to overdose her. Maybe whatever was causing her symptoms was making her resistant to the drugs.

He sighed in relief when Jemma's struggles grew weaker, then subsided as she went limp in Ward's arms.

"She's under," he said, in answer to Skye's unspoken question, releasing his grip and laying Jemma down on the ground. Again, he held her wrist, looking for a pulse. It was fast, about a hundred, even with the drugs. She looked so young, too young for all of this. He brushed a lock of hair off her grimy face and noticed her skin was hot to the touch. Skye must have also seen the red flush that had come over Jemma's face, because she knelt down and felt the biochemist's forehead with the back of her hand.

"She's burning up," she confirmed. "This is very not good."

"Coulson and May and Fitz will be here any minute," said Ward, though it had only been about a half hour since the earthquake. He picked up the canteen from where it sat on their pile of supplies and unscrewed the cap. "Sip, don't gulp, and let's get some into Simmons," he ordered. Skye took a few sips, passed the canteen back, and helped Jemma sit up. Ward held the canteen to her lips and tilted it up slightly, then held her mouth closed until the swallow reflex kicked in. He repeated the process a few more times, then had Skye lay her back down again.

The light coming in from the hole in the ceiling was dimming, and it was growing colder. Skye shivered; she was only wearing a T-shirt and light canvas trousers. Ward himself was similarly dressed, and he also felt the chill, though he was glad for it.

"It's getting late," he said. "We should rest; save our strength. Take a few more sips." He passed her the canteen. She drank some more water and settled down next to Jemma, her back resting against a nearby boulder. Hesitantly, Ward sat next to her, reasoning that they should share body heat. He was surprised when she curled up next to him, leaning against his body for warmth. She sought out his hand with her own, then clasped Jemma's limp one with her other, connecting them all. He felt safe with her, though he was supposed to be the protector.

"Be here soon?" she murmured.

"Yeah. Give it another ten or twenty minutes." He squeezed her hand, and she returned the gesture. Ward hoped Skye would doze off a little, but he himself remained vigilant, ready to reach for his gun at the slightest provocation.

Some time later, he heard shouts coming from above.

"Ward? Skye? Jemma?" The voice was male, and carried a familiar Scottish accent. Ward smiled in spite of himself.

"Skye, wake up," he said, nudging her awake. "They're here."

Skye sat up and brushed herself off, and Ward felt the absence of her touch more acutely than he would have liked.

"If you can hear us, sing out!" May's voice called.

"Down here!" Skye yelled, as loudly as she could. "Guys, we're down here!"

"We're coming!" Coulson this time. Three faces appeared at the top of the hole in the cave. Ward and Skye got up and stood under the hole, looking up at their friends, relief evident on their faces.

"We're lowering down a rope," Coulson said. "Can you climb out?"

"Where's Jemma? Is she hurt?" Fitz asked, noticing the biochemist's absence. There was a note of alarm in his voice.

"It's complicated," said Ward. He turned to Skye. "Take the gear and climb out. I'll carry Simmons."

The whole setup proved rather awkward; Skye wasn't physically strong enough to carry all the gear and climb up the rope at the same time, so they ended up putting everything in Skye's backpack, tying that to the rope, and having May pull it out first. She then lowered the rope back down and hauled Skye out and tossed Ward another rope so he could tie Jemma's unconscious form to him. And hauling the two of them out required the combined efforts of Skye, Coulson, Fitz, and May.

"Jesus, Ward, how much cement did you eat for lunch?" Fitz asked, once they were safely above ground.

"Only a little," Skye replied for him. She gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. He smiled, ever so slightly.

"Mind telling me what's going on?" Coulson gestured to Simmons, unconscious in Ward's arms.

"There was this freak earthquake, right, and the ground split open and we fell into that cave," Skye said, pointing. "And we're all fine, but then Jemma just started wigging out. We sedated her."

"Wigging out how? Is she going to be all right?" Fitz asked anxiously. "You didn't give her too much, did you?"

"Relax. She's fine. Let's get back to the bus," said Ward. Finally, at long last, he was going to get his shower.

They rode back in an SUV, Coulson at the wheel, Fitz fussing over Jemma, and Skye sacked out in the back seat, exhausted. As soon as Coulson parked the SUV in the bus's cargo bay, Ward jumped out and headed for the showers. He didn't look back. Now that the heavy lifting was over, he doubted the team needed him anymore.

Under the cold spray, Ward felt all the dust, dirt, and dried sweat wash away, like nothing had ever happened. He liked showering after missions, silly though it seemed. This was his own little ritual, something he did after unpleasant things went down. It was both practical and symbolic; he was washing away all traces of whatever he'd just been through, physical and mental.

Once he was done, he dried off, put on clean clothes, brushed his teeth, ran a comb through his hair, and headed out to face the music.

"There you are," said Skye, as Ward came into the lounge. She had also showered; her hair was still wet and loosely braided down the side, and she wore leggings and a dark pink sweatshirt. Classic Skye. "Wondered where you'd disappeared to."

"Shower," he said shortly. "Long shower. Simmons?"

"Still sleeping off the Versed," May reported. "Fitz is with her in the medical bay. Now mind telling us what's going on? In detail?"

The team, except for Fitz, gathered around the table for an impromptu debrief. Skye gave her usual chatty, tangential version of events, using plenty of hyperbole and dramatic hand gestures. Ward gave a more concise, analytical account of what had happened and made a mental note to include official debriefing protocol in Skye's next lesson.

"The cause of the earthquake and the disappearance of the teams are problematic, but our main concern is Simmons," Coulson said. "Any idea what these so-called fireflies she was talking about were? Hallucinations, maybe?"

"Possibly," said Ward. "She was agitated one minute, then staring off into space the next. And whatever they were, she seemed scared to death of them."

"Interesting," Coulson murmured.

"I did some research while you were getting cleaned up," Skye added. "May even let me use her security clearance to get at some of the higher-level SHIELD files. Nothing we or the Wikipedia has on file causes those symptoms, no germs, no poisons … this is seriously weird."

"We noticed," May informed her drily.

"The point is, how do we fix it?" Ward said, a hard edge creeping into his voice. "We've got to run some tests on Simmons, find out what's going on, and then _fix it_." In case Skye and I are also infected, he didn't say. Because it had crossed his mind. If whatever was causing Jemma's symptoms was in the environment, which it probably was, he and Skye had been exposed as well. The thought of them losing their minds like that … he shuddered internally.

"Fitz is running tests right now," Coulson said calmly. "Whatever this is, we'll figure it out. I promise."

But of course, he couldn't promise, and Ward knew it. Simmons had become like his younger sister, and he hated to see her like this. What would happen to her if they couldn't reverse the symptoms? Psychiatric care? Would she have to be restrained and drugged 24/7? No, he thought firmly. He wouldn't let that happen to her.

After Coulson concluded their debriefing, they all went down to the medical bay to check on Jemma. She lay on a cot, still unconscious. Someone had changed her out of her filthy clothes and into a pair of surgical scrubs, and an IV line snaked out of her left arm. Fitz was standing next to her bed, holding her hand and looking down at her with concern written all over his face.

"How is she?" Coulson asked.

"Still asleep," Fitz reported. "I ran all the tests like you asked. Bloodwork came back normal; pulse and blood pressure are pretty high, and she's got a fever of one-oh-four. I gave her Tylenol, but it's not helping."

"And the EEG I asked you to do?"

"That's another story." He picked up a tablet and brought up the test results. To Ward, it looked like a bunch of squiggles of various shapes and colors. "This is Jemma's EEG," Fitz began. He swiped his fingers across the touchscreen and brought up another picture, this one of some slightly different squiggles. "This is a normal EEG. They're different."

"Yeah, but what's that mean?" Skye asked. "Different how?"

"That, I do not know," Fitz admitted, putting the tablet down. "This is not exactly my area of expertise. But it would be nice if we had some samples from the area," he added. "Air, soil, water, maybe take some readings, see if there's any unusual radiation or a magnetic field we missed the first time around. From a distance, of course. I've got some robots we can send in to do the dirty work."

"Let's do it," Coulson said firmly. "Skye and Ward, stay with Simmons. Fitz, grab your robots; you're with me. May, you stay here and hold down the fort."

"Shouldn't I be coming with you?" May asked. "If you run into trouble out there …"

"We'll be fine," Coulson assured her. She looked like she was about to object, but then something passed between them over that telepathic link they sometimes seemed to have. They'd worked together for so long that they didn't even need words, and Ward had never been more envious in his life.

"I should stay with Jemma," Fitz protested.

Coulson looked at him with that soothing gaze. "I know. But I need you to operate the robots so we can collect samples, samples we can analyze to help her. Skye and Ward will take good care of her, and May will be here too. She's in good hands."

The look on Fitz's face made his opinions plain, but he didn't argue; he simply headed down to the lab to retrieve his hardware. Coulson followed him, and May left as well, presumably heading for the cockpit, leaving Skye and Ward with Jemma.

"Kinda spooky, huh?" said Skye, quite unnecessarily. But Ward knew she liked to fill empty space with meaningless chatter, and while it normally annoyed him, he decided that if there were ever a time to make an exception, this was it. He tuned out anything else she might be saying and went and found some Velcro restraints. The Versed was due to wear off soon, and he didn't want to risk Jemma hurting herself or Skye.

"Wait, what are you doing?" Skye asked, seeing his intentions.

"She's waking up already," he said, gesturing to Jemma, who was stirring slightly. "I don't want anyone getting hurt." He fastened the strap around her left wrist, then her right.

"But, but she's sick," Skye protested. "She's sick and scared and you'll just frighten her more. Let me talk to her when she wakes up; I can keep her calm like I did in the cave."

"I'm not taking that chance," said Ward firmly. "At the very least, she'll yank out her IV line. You can keep her calm while she's in the restraints." Skye looked like she wanted to say more, but Ward silenced her with a look. He checked the straps, then tightened the one around her left ankle slightly.

Ward took off the sweatshirt he was wearing and tied it around his waist. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught May watching them. It occurred to him that Coulson hadn't just ordered them to remain behind to watch Jemma; he'd wanted them contained in case they became affected too. And May was their watchdog.

"Hey, Jemma," he heard Skye say. He looked over at the bed and saw that Jemma's eyes were open. "It's okay; you're safe. The team came and got us and we're back on the bus now. May's around here somewhere, and Ward's over there, and Fitz and Coulson went out to get some samples so we can figure out how to fix this mystery bug. How're you feeling?"

Jemma's eyes widened in fear, and Ward's heart sank. He'd been half-hoping that either the Versed or being away from the cave would alleviate the symptoms.

"Skye?" Jemma asked. "Oh, God, what's happening?" She tried to sit up, but was stopped by the straps holding her down. Panic set in, and she screamed and began thrashing and twisting, trying to free herself.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, calm down," Skye said. "It's okay, Jem, just breathe." She put her hand on the biochemist's shoulder and pressed her down, gently, but Jemma kept fighting, screaming about fireflies.

"Can we get some more seds into her?" Skye asked. "Ward?"

Ward made a judgment call and nodded, opening the drawer to get out a vial of Haldol. He filled a needle, swabbed Jemma's arm, and, with Skye holding her down, injected her with the drug. It took far longer than it should have for it to kick in, but eventually Jemma calmed, if only a little. He'd take it.

"Hey, hey, it's okay now," Skye whispered to Jemma, stroking her hair. Ward put the used needle in the sharps disposal box and stood back, not knowing what to do. Skye kept talking to Jemma, held her hand, asked her about all sorts of science-y things to try and distract her. When the scientist became agitated, Skye simply continued to speak soothingly, assuring her that she was safe and that everything was going to be okay. Ward pressed his lips together and shifted his weight back and forth. This sort of thing always made him feel uncomfortable, voyeuristic somehow. He decided to step out for some fresh air, maybe check up on Coulson and Fitz while he was at it. Jemma seemed fine for now, and he knew Skye wouldn't hesitate to call him if she needed anything. Besides, it was getting hot in there.

Leaving the two women alone in the medical bay, he walked slowly down the corridor to the briefing room, hoping not to run into May. He felt no antipathy towards her; he just didn't feel like being around other people right now. After watching Fitz and Skye with Jemma, or Coulson's and May's little telepathic exchange, he felt more alone than ever, and didn't want his lack of meaningful interpersonal relationships thrown in his face. Luckily, the pilot was nowhere to be found.

Melinda May. They were so alike, yet so different, he reflected as he walked. They both had their fair share of nightmares to deal with, old wounds that had never quite healed. Ward had stripped life down to its basic necessities: food, water, training, and of course, The Mission. He set the hopelessly tangled strings of Christmas lights that made up everything else aside somewhere where he wouldn't have to think about them. But May, May had untangled her Christmas lights piece by infuriating piece. She wasn't completely whole, not by a long shot, but she was a lot better off than he was. She was a little like a mosaic: broken pieces that made up something beautiful. He wished he had her kind of courage.

Ward stepped into the briefing room, activated the screen, and called Coulson and Fitz on Face Time. Fitz answered, his boyish face filling the screen. It was night, but through the darkness Ward could see Coulson moving in the background, attending to one of Fitz's robots.

"Hey, Ward," Fitz said, with a poor attempt at a smile. "How's Jemma?"

"No change. Skye's with her," he reported. It was the concise version, anyway. "Find anything?"

"It's been slow going," Fitz said. "It's a wee bit dark out here, and I didn't design these contraptions with sample-gathering in mind. But we did find something interesting."

"What's that?"

"Some inscriptions in the rocks. We took some photos and enhanced them. I sent them to Dr. Blake from the Sandbox—you know, the linguist?"

Ward nodded. He'd heard of her. She specialized in translating ancient languages, especially Mesoamerican ones.

"Well, maybe the original inhabitants of this area can give us some answers. I told her to call when she had something."

"Anything else to report?" Ward asked.

"Well, we managed to recover the dwarves," he said, his face lighting up. "I fixed a couple of them and sent them down into that cave you and Skye and Simmons were in. Nothing remarkable there; there wasn't much more than the area where you were camped out. We took some rock samples, scanned for any unusual radiation, but there wasn't anything. It's like this—whatever it is—just came out of nowhere." His expression was somber.

Ward saw Coulson in the background waving to Fitz. The engineer looked over his shoulder at him, then turned back to Ward and said, "Hang on; I've got to go. Minor malfunction."

Ward nodded again, then turned off the screen. The writings Fitz had mentioned had prompted him to come up with a rather unpleasant theory: that whatever this firefly disease was, it might have been the cause of the original inhabitants' disappearance. He quickly pushed the thought out of his mind and headed to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face.

Just one more thing to hate about hot places, he thought, turning on the water. Sweat, bugs, dust, sunburn, and now mysterious illnesses with unknown causes that had possibly wiped out—

He hit the emergency brake on that train of thought. He gritted his teeth; he hated feeling helpless like that. And it was so stuffy in there; he was feeling claustrophobic.

He toweled off his face, drank a few cups of water to make up for all the sweating he'd done that day, and went back to the medical bay to check on Skye and Jemma. Skye was still sitting next to the bed, talking softly about nothing in particular. She'd put a cold cloth on Jemma's forehead, probably in an attempt to alleviate her fever.

"How is she?" Ward asked.

"Pretty out of it," said Skye, looking up. "She was mumbling something about artificially grown meat a few minutes ago."

Ward's stomach turned at the memory of that particular experiment. Skye was lucky she hadn't been there when that went down …

"Well, I talked to Fitz and Coulson," he reported. He gave her a brief description of what they'd found.

"So that's it?" Skye asked when he'd finished. "A bunch of ancient writing? That's all we have to go on?"

"Pretty much," Ward said with a shrug. He could see how frustrated Skye was becoming, but he didn't know what else to tell her.

"Skye?" Jemma asked pleadingly. "The fireflies, they won't leave me alone."

"It's okay; I won't let them hurt you," said Skye, returning to her side. "You're fine. Just take some deep breaths. Can you do that for me?"

Jemma nodded, blinking back tears. Ward could see her carotid artery throbbing in her neck; her pulse was still way too fast. At least she wasn't violent anymore. He noticed Skye had taken the restraints off her wrists, but refrained from commenting. Jemma seemed calm enough, and maybe Skye had been right; restraining her had only made her more scared.

"Deep breaths; it's okay. It's okay." Skye repeated. Ward wondered how many times she'd said those words today.

Ward took a couple of deep breaths himself and tugged at his shirt. Maybe he'd take Coulson up on that offer to transfer to Alaska. Since arriving in Mexico, he'd probably sweated enough to irrigate the whole damn desert. God, he hated the heat. And wasn't the bus supposed to have air conditioning? He tapped his fingers against his leg, nervous energy singing through his skin. He turned towards the door, intending to go find May and yell at her about climate control, but something seemed … off. Out of place. Misaligned. Asynchronous.

"Ward?" Skye asked nervously. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," he snapped. "I'm fine."

Skye put her hands up. "Whoa, Mr. Warm-and-fuzzy. Didn't mean to offend."

"Sorry. It's just hot in here."

Skye looked at him strangely. He felt his skin crawl.

And then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of light, then another, then another. They were flitting and skipping all around him, and he didn't know what they were, but he knew that they were evil, oh so evil…

_Fireflies._

Ward yelled, spun around, and ran to the other side of the room, but the fireflies followed him. They were everywhere, and he couldn't escape them. Somewhere in the distance he heard Skye's voice, but when he looked for her all he saw was a hideous gray monster, its eyes glowing the same yellow as the fireflies. He made a fist and swung, but was so panicked that he missed the monster and hit the wall.

"Whoa! Grant, calm down!" Skye's voice shouted. "It's okay; it's only me." The monster flickered, and he saw a flash of the woman he knew and trusted. And then the fireflies were back, and he could feel the evil radiating off them. For the first time in what had to be years, Grant Ward was scared.

Strong, sinewy arms wrapped themselves around him from behind, pinning his arms across his chest. "Calm down; I've got you," said a familiar voice. The arms squeezed harder; May was using the same compression trick he'd used to calm Jemma back in the cave. It worked better when you had a hundred or so pounds on the person you were holding, but May also had him in some kind of arm lock. He fought and struggled, but she held him tight. "Calm down; I've got you," she repeated. "Ward!"

He felt his heartbeat slowing and fell to his knees. May went down with him, not releasing her hold. The fireflies were fading, but the sense of threat remained. They would return, he knew, and soon, along with the glow-eyed monsters.

"Shh, Grant, it's okay," Skye was saying. "I'm just going to give you a shot; is that all right?"

He nodded and tried to push up his sleeve for her, but May still had him firmly pinned. He felt alcohol on his skin, then a needle in his arm, and then consciousness faded away, faded away to nightmares.

Screaming. Blood. Explosions, dead bodies, terrified people running every which way. Brief flickers of something right out of a horror film, or one of his old black ops missions. Mostly just fear, paralyzing, uncontrollable fear.

And fireflies. Millions of them, screaming through the air and obliterating everything in their path.

He began to recognize a few landmarks. The mesa next to the ruins. The path they'd followed to get there. A few old slabs of rock he'd thought would make good cover in a firefight, only they weren't just slabs; they were entire buildings, houses, shops.

More fireflies shot through the air, leaving scorch marks in the ground as they skimmed low over it. Ward covered his head and fell to his knees.

And then he was lying on his back, wrists and ankles encased in restraints, another strap across his stomach for good measure. And Skye was there. She was telling him to wake up, that everything was okay, that she was there. He felt her hand in his, felt her other hand on his shoulder. The fireflies faded away until they were just some distant nightmare, and her face filled his field of vision.

"Grant?" she asked. "You with me?"

"Skye?" His voice sounded plaintive, and that was unusual, because he normally didn't do plaintive.

"I'm here," she said. "I'm right here."

"The fireflies …" he began, his throat dry. "They came a long time ago … I saw it in a dream … they killed the people from the old settlement … all of them … dead." His breath was short and shallow; the drugs were probably wearing off.

"What're you talking about?" she asked. Ward felt a cold washcloth on his burning forehead and noticed that May was also standing next to him. That woman was part shadow; he'd swear by it.

"I dreamed it," he said. The drugs were definitely wearing off; he could feel his heart rate speeding up. "The fireflies killed everyone who used to live where the ruins are. Men, women, kids—" His breath caught in his throat.

"You dreamed it?" That was May. She was talking, saying words. That was unusual. There was a lot of that going around.

"Yeah."

"So what?" Skye asked.

"We gave him Versed. It normally suppresses REM sleep. He shouldn't have been dreaming."

Ward was starting to shake. The fireflies were coming for him; they'd be here any minute, coming up from his dream to hurt him, hurt Skye and May and wipe them all out and reduce their plane to ruins in the sand. Panic set in, and he began to struggle, but the restraints held him back. He could feel his heart beating against his ribcage, fast, too fast. He was dimly aware of May and Skye trying to keep him still, but they were too late. The fireflies were coming back, and suddenly there were two ghoulish monsters standing over him, commanding their little armies of lightning bugs. He swallowed a scream. They were coming, and he was a sitting duck.

Then the monsters faded. Their glowing firefly eyes resolved into two pairs of dark brown, oval-shaped ones. Skye's and May's. Both friends. He was safe. The fireflies were gone, for now at least. But they'd be back.

"Go check on Simmons; I'll stay with him," May was saying. Skye turned and left, and he felt her absence more intensely than he should have. It was like having a warm winter coat taken away, leaving him alone in a blizzard with nothing but an undershirt.

"Is Simmons okay?" Ward managed to say.

"She's doing better, actually. Seems more lucid."

He nodded to show he understood. "Me?" he asked.

"You drift in and out. Fever of one-oh-three point eight, your heart rate was eighty-two while you were sedated, and I'm not even going to start in about your blood pressure."

"Fitz and Coulson?"

"They'll be back soon. Blake called."

Blake. It took him a minute to remember. Right, the linguist.

"She translated some of the inscriptions. They mention a threat of some sort, an unbeatable foe that would bring destruction."

"May, the fireflies," he said, his voice rising. "It was the fireflies; they killed everyone there!"

May gave him her signature shut-up-and-listen glare, and even with him in this state it worked. "There's more," she told him. "They mention some sort of relic, something that would be left behind after they were gone."

"What kind of relic?"

"Blake's best translation was "guardian of memory." Ward? You with me?" Her voice was growing distant. The world took on an unreal quality, as though he were dreaming. He felt hot; he wanted a shower. But showers didn't seem real anymore, either. Nothing did. And perhaps that was for the best; reality was a drag, for him, anyway.

He swam in and out for a while, never quite sure where he was. At times, he saw the people from the old settlement, with their braided hair and homespun clothing. Sometimes they were running from the fireflies. That always scared him, made him scream. But other times, they were just going about their daily lives, working and talking and playing and sleeping. One woman in a pink shawl reminded him of Skye.

Skye. When he wasn't seeing the old settlement, he was seeing her. She never left his side, always there, sometimes talking, sometimes just stroking his hair or holding his hand. She would never know how much that meant to him. He wasn't alone. Maybe he never had been; maybe his isolation was only a product of his mind.

"Ward?" The voice was soft, kind, and very much real. The real world came back into focus.

"Skye?"

"Ward, it's okay. Fitz turned the machine off. It's over," said Skye. "You're okay."

"What machine?" he asked. "Skye?"

"I'm right here." She squeezed his hand. "And I'm not really sure what kind of machine, because Fitz was speaking engineer-ese when he was explaining it, but the important part is that now that it's off, you and Jemma are not as freaked out."

It was true; Ward felt less feverish, and his heart wasn't trying to break out of his chest anymore. The fireflies seemed a distant memory. He flexed his wrists and found that the restraints had been removed. Ward tried to sit up, but May stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't sit up yet," she told him sternly.

He could see Jemma across the room. Fitz and Coulson were with her, and she was sitting up and smiling. Fitz said something he couldn't make out, but he did hear Jemma laugh. God, that was a heavenly sound.

"Simmons is going to be fine?" he said. It was half question, half statement.

"She's doing great," Skye assured him. "Here, want some water?"

Water sounded wonderful. A straw was pressed to his lips, and he sipped eagerly, suddenly noticing how thirsty he was. He was hungry, too, he realized. It was no wonder; all that panic had probably burned more calories than a five-mile run.

And so, about an hour later, all six of them were sitting around the table in the lounge for another impromptu debrief. Ward had a giant plate of spaghetti in front of him, his second, which he was all but inhaling. Jemma was drinking one of those liquid yogurt things; she'd said she didn't quite feel up to solid food yet. He could believe it; she was so pale she was practically translucent, and the frightened-mouse look still hadn't quite left her eyes. She'd taken the worst of it, he knew, though she'd never admit it. But she was also stronger than she looked, and Ward knew that, given enough time, she'd be okay.

Between Blake's now-complete translation of the ancient writings, Fitz's analysis of the mysterious machine found in the ruins, and Ward's and Jemma's experiences, the team had mostly pieced together what had happened. A thriving civilization had once lived where the ruins now lay, but had been decimated by these mysterious "fireflies" and whoever had been controlling them. The machine had been left behind as a sort of a record, a testament to their civilization. It was supposed to give off a type of low-frequency transmission that would go straight into a person's mind, showing them a sort of mental movie of what had happened. But, obviously, something had gone wrong, because it had only broadcast the scariest parts of its "movie," not to mention causing an earthquake.

A few loose ends remained. First and foremost were the mysterious fireflies. They still didn't know who or what they were, where they'd come from, or, most importantly, if they were coming back.

Second, they still hadn't found the archeologists. But Agent Maxwell's team was going to be handling that from here on out, much to everyone's relief.

Third was that there had been a civilization that had lived almost a thousand years ago that had had access to technology that was centuries beyond anything even SHIELD had. Fitz thought it might be Asgardian, but Skye's theory was that Vishnu, who according to her was also an alien, had been involved somehow, and she was sticking to it.

Fourth, and definitely most puzzling, was why Skye herself hadn't been affected. Jemma had come down with it first because she'd been knocked out, and her brain had been more receptive while she was unconscious. That made perfect sense. But Skye hadn't had so much as an elevated heart rate, even after Ward had been incapacitated. The general consensus was that they were not going to look a gift horse in the mouth, though Ward did see May and Coulson have one of their telepathic moments when the subject came up.

After debriefing and his third plate of spaghetti, Ward went and took a shower. He turned the temperature down so low that there were practically icicles coming out of the showerhead. But he didn't care; he just wanted to wash away the fear that still clung to his skin. Knowing that had just been the machine putting it into his mind didn't make him feel any better. He'd been weak, allowing himself to show how scared he was.

Ward came out of the shower shivering, skin cold, lips and nail beds blue. He put on his warmest shirt, pants, and socks, tucked his hands under his arms, and curled up in a corner of his bunk under his extra blanket, but still he was cold. Cold and alone and miserable.

"Ward?" Someone knocked on the door. Skye.

"Come on in," he said, glad his teeth had at least stopped chattering. The door slid open, and Skye entered, still wearing her pink sweatshirt.

"Came to see if you were all right." She sat down on the end of his bed and turned towards him.

"I'm fine," he said, though they both knew it was a lie.

She looked at him for a moment, then held out her hands. "Come here," she whispered, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. He leaned into her, feeling the warm fabric of her sweatshirt against his cheek. She held him tight, rubbed his back, spoke soothingly. He was safe with her, and it wasn't weakness, just ... love. There was really no other word for it.

Skye had been his rock throughout this whole ordeal, his and Jemma's both. She'd been the one keeping them strong in that cave, not him. And she'd been by his side while he was under the machine's influence. She was an extraordinary woman, gentle, caring, selfless, strong, and for the first time, Ward saw just how deep that ran.

Warm at last, he fell asleep in her arms.

* * *

Continued -


	2. Aftermath

**Author's note**: This piece was originally going to be one chapter, but I accidentally marked it as "in-progress", and one reviewer said they were looking forward to updates. So since it's already gotten far, far longer than it was meant to, I threw caution to the wind and wrote this. My muse Scheherazade would be proud.

* * *

"Stop. Wasting. Water." Melinda May stood in the hallway outside the bathroom, hands on her hips. She was glaring at Grant Ward, who had just finished showering in liquid nitrogen. His lips and nail beds were blue with cold, and he swore his skin had ice crystals forming on it.

"Come on, May," he protested. "A guy's got to wash."

"This is your fourth shower in thirty-six hours," May told him firmly. "You're clean."

"I …" His voice trailed off. How could he explain it to her, the thick film of fear that still clung to him, the weakness and shame he couldn't scrub off? How could he explain that he'd never be clean?

Her gaze softened. "Ward, I know this has been hard on you. But please, just stop wasting water." May had said please, he noted absently. Apparently the previous day's unusual hadn't quite worn off yet.

Ward gave a short nod and turned around, intending to go find a sweater and try to get some sleep, but May's hand on his shoulder stopped him. He turned to face her.

"What do you want?" he asked. It came out harsher than he'd intended.

"Do you remember what I told you after you touched the staff?"

He pressed his lips together and suppressed a growl. He'd spent large amounts of valuable time burying any and all things related to that unfortunate incident, and he didn't take kindly to her bringing it up.

There was a long pause, but May didn't break eye contact.

"You said to let you help me," he said finally.

"So let me help you now." She reached out and took his cold hands in her warm ones.

"I don't need your help," he snapped, yanking his hands away. "I don't need anyone's help." He walked away angrily in the general direction of his bunk. Being sick had been bad enough, but relying on May and Skye to keep him calm when he should have been able to beat it on his own? What kind of specialist was he? He couldn't even protect himself, much less his team. He wasn't strong; he just pretended to be. If he'd been strong, he wouldn't have had to take his younger brother to the ER at two in the morning for a spiral fracture of the radius. If he'd been strong, his first partner wouldn't have gotten killed in action on their second mission together.

If he'd been strong, truly strong, he would have kept it together yesterday while the machine was projecting fear into his mind. If he'd been strong, he would have kept his dignity, his composure, rather than showing the whole world how weak and scared and cowardly he was.

Fitz had explained it to him, of course, that the fear hadn't really been his, but that of the settlement's original inhabitants. He'd basically been experiencing a brain recording, and anything that he'd felt or seen while under its influence was a thousand years old. But it didn't make him feel any better, nor did the fleece he pulled over his head in an attempt to stop the shivering deep in his chest. He let out an impatient sigh and sat down on his bed. Somehow he didn't think he was going to get any sleep tonight.

He rose to his feet and began restlessly pacing up and down the corridor. He badly wanted another shower, with the water turned down as cold as it would go and then some, but he knew that the suddenly environmentally conscious May was probably lurking somewhere in the shadows. Besides, sending himself into hypothermic shock wouldn't solve anything. Of course, he reasoned, there were worse things he could do, maladaptive coping mechanism-wise.

He was toying around with ways to distract May so he could take another shower when he spotted Jemma in the corridor next to her bunk. She was wearing white flannel pajamas with cartoon cats on them and fluffy bunny slippers, both of which seemed too big for her small frame. Her light brown hair was tangled, and her eyes were underscored by dark circles. Her skin was pale, and as she reached up to open the door to her bunk, he saw her hand tremble. But she was smiling, a tired, wan smile, but a smile nonetheless. She was dealing with this so much better than he was, going slowly, asking for help when she needed it, taking care of herself. He'd found her and Fitz earlier that evening, curled up on the couch together watching a movie on Skye's laptop. They'd looked so peaceful, like mice in a nest, only with _Ghostbusters_ playing on the screen in front of them.

Hers was a strange kind of courage, he reflected. And in so many ways, she was stronger than he.

Grant Ward could bench press upwards of three hundred pounds. He could run a four-minute mile. He'd lost count of how many push-ups he could do. He was level three advanced in hand-to-hand combat. He had once finished an obstacle course with a broken wrist. He could, as someone had put it, rupture a person's spleen with his left pinky, blindfolded. But looking at Jemma now, and at Fitz, who was willing to do anything to help a friend, at May, who'd picked herself up and put herself back together with duct tape and safety pins, and Skye, who wore her heart on her sleeve, and Coulson, who calmly, nonchalantly did the impossible every day, he felt small and weak and scared.

Maybe May was right. Maybe he needed help.

Ward pressed his fingers to his temples and leaned his forehead against the wall. There was a dull throbbing behind his eyes, the beginnings of what promised to be a major headache.

"Ward? You okay?" It was Skye. She was leaning against the wall, dressed in sweat pants and a tank top and holding an open bag of potato chips, her favorite bedtime snack.

He took a deep breath. "No," he said, exhaling. It was the first time in his life he'd ever given a negative response to that question.

"Want to talk about it?"

It was the same offer she'd made him after he'd touched the staff (damn May for bringing that up). He'd refused it then, and he had half a mind to refuse it now, but he was tired and his head hurt and he couldn't very well take another shower.

And he wanted to be strong. Not his twisted, dysfunctional kind of strong, but Jemma's kind of strong, the kind where it was okay to ask for help or spill your guts if it made you feel better.

"Yeah," he said, before he could chicken out.

Skye looked surprised, but nodded approvingly. "Want to sit down somewhere?" she asked, somehow sensing that there would be a lot to talk about. He nodded shortly, and gestured to his bunk. They sat down on his bed, and Skye turned to him, waiting for him to speak. But he was afraid, though he knew it was silly. He'd barely broken a sweat doing a parachute drop from 30,000 feet into enemy territory under heavy fire. Why should this be so terrifying?

Skye didn't push him; she just gave him an encouraging, patient look and then shared some of her potato chips. They sat in comfortable silence for a minute, just enjoying each other's company, until Ward felt his throat loosen and words come out.

He told her everything and then some. Told her what the machine's influence had felt like, how scared he'd been of the fireflies, and how helpless he still felt. Told her that he felt like a failure for not being able to protect her and Jemma and his brother and his old partner and every single freaking human being in the universe while he was at it. Told her how alone he was, and had always been. He even cried a little, and then told her how much he hated himself for it.

And she listened, and nodded, and told him he wasn't a failure. Told him he was strong for telling her this, that she was glad he trusted her. Told him she didn't hate him, that no one on the plane did; she was sure of it. Told him he wasn't alone, and then hugged him tight, just like she had the night before.

And then he told her how he felt, right now, with her. Warm. Safe. Strong. Loved.

She told him she felt exactly the same way.


End file.
